


The Price Of Falling

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Canon, Drama, No Slash, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-01
Updated: 2005-07-01
Packaged: 2018-12-27 11:16:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12079977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: Spoilers thru 507





	The Price Of Falling

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

_"It's awful quiet here since love fell asleep."_

He's been gone for two days and three nights and you still lay awake in the silence, waiting for the sound of his key in the door. The darkness would cover you, if he did come in right now. It would cover the way you stare blankly at the exposed ceiling beams, ribbons of smoke curling around your hand from the glowing tip of your cigarette ( _everything is falling apart_ ).

Nothing make sense anymore. Your friends, the people you once called your family, have all taken on a bewildering array of behaviors and attitudes that nonplus you ( _you'd get it if you weren't so fucked up, if your life wasn't so fucked up_ ) and now they all regard you as if you're from another world.

And they probably hate you, too. For his benefit, they could easily hate you, and they've probably forgotten ( _like he did, he forgot everything, and now you aren't enough anymore_ ) how you fucked ( _loved_ ) him back to health, paid for his school, saved the city for his Sunshine smile, let him go when he needed to find himself, took him back when the world failed him.

A long, hot ash falls to your stomach, reminding you that you're holding fire ( _he was fire, he burned with and for and through you_ ) so you brush at yourself carelessly, stub the thing out in the ashtray, and resume your staring. There's not much left to do now, because the space where your chest used to be has caved in and no one has noticed ( _no one cares_ ) and the pit that's left in its wake aches and throbs like a bad tooth. 

You recall the night you met ( _beautiful, he was so very_ ), the way you fucked him, the tiny sounds he made in the back of his throat that grew and grew until they filled your cold loft with music that settled into you and became a thing you needed. He'd adored you then, his young face looking at ( _frightening_ ) you with such hope, such longing, and you twisted at the end of a rope he clenched in his fists and denied it even to yourself.

He'd left you for a while, though he didn't choose to, his eyes fatally closed, his face ashen, his ears deaf to pleas that he wake up ( _god, no, please don't die_ ), and when he did wake up ( _thankyouthankyouthankyou_ ) he was yours again. You held him loosely, believing that a tighter grip on him would strangle you, held him so loosely that he slipped away again ( _he always will_ ).

How many times had be bounced in and out of your life? Would you ever be what he needed? ( _no, never_ ) How could he be so miserable when you were so ( _happy_ ) satisfied with what you had? But there are other things for you to turn to, other accomplishments, other people ( _but not Mikey_ ), other satisfactions in your life ( _without him?_ ) and you'll just have to make do with them. 

Gus, for one. You'd made a promise to yourself ( _too little, too late_ ) that you'd spend more time with him, be there for him as he grew up, get to know him and let him get to know you ( _better off without you_ ) and the hours you spend with him have become important to you.

Lindsay would still be there ( _she's moving on_ ) if you needed her, but why would you? Ok, maybe a little, maybe you need her in some of the same ways you used to, but that isn't enough to build a life on. So there's Kinnetik and Babylon ( _Brandon, fuck_ ), both of which you pulled from thin air and turned into vital, successful ventures. You're good at that when it comes to business, you've always been ( _prove the old man wrong, fuck you, Jack_ ).

And so what if it isn't ( _him_ ) everything you need, that's what you have your dick for, right? You can work, see your son and fuck. What more could a man want out of life? So Justin fucking Taylor doesn't get it ( _is he thinking of me right now?_ ). His ( _my_ ) loss. 

You want to think of something better, something besides this fucking self-pity shit and Brandon's face comes to mind, his smirk and his arrogance ( _you, ten years ago, oldoldold_ ) and you know without a doubt that you'll win his little contest. The ten hottest guys in Pittsburgh, how easy could _that_ be ( _how could it be complete without Justin at the top?_ )? It's ( _he's_ ) making you hard just thinking about it, all that prime ass just waiting to be fucked.

Your hand wanders south and now you're thinking better thoughts for sure, and when you run your fingers lightly up the underside of your dick, you're not thinking about Justin ( _his talented tongue_ ) or why he left ( _wasted opportunities_ ), you're thinking about the next hot, tight hole you'll sink into. And as you begin stroking in earnest, and bolts of pleasure begin to twitch through your body, ( _his hands, soft, strong_ ) you get off a little on the power game it'll be to fuck the shit out of Brandon when you win.

You figure that when he does creep into your thoughts ( _Justin!_ ), it's only natural because he's been the hottest piece of ass you've had in a long time ( _god, more Justin_ ) so you don't let it fuck with your head. You just keep moving your fist up and down, up and down, until your breath comes in short, grunting pants, filling the darkness around you ( _those eyes, god, Justin, when we fucked_ ).

When you feel your balls tightening ( _christ, want you, where are you?_ ) and a quiet moan escapes through your tightly compressed lips, when the muscle memory of his dick sliding down your throat grabs you and won't let go ( _fuck, Justin, so good_ ), your neck arches on the pillow and your face scrunches. You're so close and it isn't because you love him ( _yes, please, Justin_ ) or need him. You don't, you fucking won't ( _so afraid, no!_ ). You just want a tight ass to unload in ( _liar_ ) and his happened to be available for so long.

Your orgasm slams into you, harder than it should have for a half-assed handjob, and you pretend, as your heart squeezes and your head explodes, that it wasn't Justin's name ( _yesyesyesohgodyes_ ) you whispered into the empty bedroom.

You don't even bother to clean up ( _his pink tongue, licking your clean_ ), you just roll over towards his side of the bed, think how lucky you are to have all this space to yourself ( _lonely, god, Justin_ ), gather his pillow to your chest and close your eyes, hoping for a heavy, dreamless sleep.


End file.
